“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” She turned and scrambled down the path, her footing faltering on the uneven stones.
When she was out of their line of vision Cecilia stopped to collect herself. She wanted to run and tell Marc, but she realized this entireweek had been full of secrets, and doing so might lead to the discovery of her own.
She arrived at Didier’s frazzled, coming across two bellhops near the entrance already loading the cameras and lighting equipment—the utilitarian Pelican cases and the Tenba bags—onto their respective golf carts. There were nine cases and four Tenba bags, not including Didier’s personal luggage. Marc was overseeing the process, counting and recounting and tagging everything.
“Hey, goof. You okay?”
Cecilia nodded.
“Did you see your girlfriend?”
She looked him square in the face, shaking off the shock of what she had just witnessed. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Marc.”
“Just messing with you, Cee. His duffel and backpack are in the living room. I’ve got everything else.”
Cecilia entered the main room of the casita, and spotted Didier through the open back doors. He was pacing on the terrace overlooking the bluffs, shouting in French into a cordless telephone, the sea beckoning behind him. Inside, seated on the banquette on the far side of the room, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world, was Maren in a familiar oversized chambray work shirt unbuttoned to her sternum, white jeans, gold Panthère de Cartier watch, a sly smile on her lips. She was flipping through aVanity Fair. Her legs crossed, a navy Tod’s driving moccasin dangling off one foot. She was, to Cecilia, effortlessly chic. She, in her pretty white skin.
“Hey there.” She smiled, smug almost. “Did you guys have a good time last night?”
“It was okay.”
“Hmm.” She nodded. And then, “Too much sun yesterday. We decided to stay in.”
Cecilia paused.We?Was that the royalwe, or was she referring to herself and Didier? Were they an established item? Cecilia wasn’t sure if she was supposed to already be aware of it, or if this was Maren’s way of letting her in on a secret. Or perhaps bragging. Although why she would brag after Friday’s dinner ended so appallingly, Cecilia had no clue.
“Alors…” Didier came bounding into the room then, darksunglasses, freshly shampooed curls, smelling of grass and tobacco and sun. “Fini.”
“How’d it go?” Maren asked.
“On verra. We’ll see. I really want this fragrance campaign.”
“I know you do.”
“I think these pictures could do it.”
“I didn’t see the Polaroids,” she said.
“There were none.” Didier turned toward Cecilia, standing near the entrance of the room. She had clearly walked in on something. “On y va, petite Cecilia? You ready?”
“Cecilia’s always ready,” Maren said.
And then Cecilia noticed it: the right collar of Maren’s oversized shirt was faintly frayed. Maren was an impeccable dresser. She did not do ripped jeans or distressed denim or frayed collars. Not even by accident. Cecilia realized why the chambray shirt looked familiar. It belonged to Didier.
“C’est vrai,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t know what I would do without this one. She keeps me in line.” He crossed the room then to collect his Hermès duffel and backpack in the corner. He handed the backpack to Cecilia and then turned back toward Maren, still flipping through her magazine. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Treat yourself to a massage.”
“Already scheduled.”
“Call me when you land.”
“Will do.”
“We got some good pictures.”
“We did. They’re very happy. You’ve made a lot of people happy.”
